


The Common Reader

by mydogwatson



Series: PostcardTales III [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, John is a fan, M/M, Pre-Slash, Sherlock is a prodigy, alternate first meeting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-23
Updated: 2017-02-23
Packaged: 2018-09-26 13:09:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9898520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: John is a fan and wants an autograph from his favourite author.  He gets more than that.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hi. Since yesterday's tale was a bit angsty, it is nice that today's is a bit of fluff. I had a great time writing this and hope you enjoy reading it.

The truth be told, John was feeling like something of an idiot.

It was easy to see that, at twenty-three, he was one of the older people in the queue winding its way along Piccadilly. Many of the others in the growing crowd looked to be about fourteen. Maybe fifteen. A few were apparently ten. The ones who were obviously closer to John’s age [and those who were clearly older] all seemed a bit…geeky. Many of the males had long hair and beards and some of the females had painted their faces with intricate designs of purple and green.

All of which basically meant that John Watson stuck out a bit: A medical student headed into the RAMC after graduation, his hair was cut short in an almost military style and his plaid sport shirt and khaki trousers were suitable for doing morning rounds with the house surgeon at Barts.

There was, however, one common denominator amongst everyone in the queue, including John. Just like all the others, he was clutching his copy of The Master of Deduction, the 700-plus page epic fantasy novel that had overnight become a worldwide bestseller. And John’s favourite book ever.

It was because of the book that John had dashed out of Barts after his morning shift and headed immediately for Waterstone’s and why he was now here queuing with the geeks and teenagers. He had never wanted an author’s autograph before, but somehow he needed to come here today. He excused himself in part for the ridiculousness of it all, because medical school was hard work, exhausting really, and sometimes it was quite nice to escape to the wild moors of Devonshire and the adventures of Sir William Scott.

His sense of fascination had grown even stronger quite recently when he, along with everyone else, learned from the newspapers that, amazingly, The Master of Deduction had been written by an eighteen-year-old. A prodigy, in fact, who was already in his third year as a chemistry student at Cambridge University. This signing was actually the first public appearance of the slightly mysterious author. John flipped the book over in his hands to look again at the photo on the back cover. It was a black-and-white image of a solitary figure with both hands shoved into the pockets of a long coat, shot from behind, dark curls ruffling a bit, as he stood on a hill looking out over the moors.

John would have set himself on fire before admitting to anyone in the world that he had hung the publicity poster with that exact picture blown up large on the wall of his studio flat near Bart’s.

The queue was moving now, albeit slowly, and John wondered if everyone waiting would actually be able to get an autograph. Luckily, he had arrived in good time, so that probably meant he was safe.

In only about ten minutes, he was in through the front door of the bookshop, so Holmes must be a very fast signer of books, but John still could not see his goal for the crowd in front of him..

It was ridiculous to feel nervous, of course. He was a doctor [almost] and a soon-to-be soldier and this was just a bit of fun. A harmless way to satisfy his curiosity. He would get the autograph, tell the mysterious Sherlock Holmes how much he had enjoyed the book, and then he would go for his usual solitary lunch and his life would carry on as normal. He was not, after all, the giggling girl standing right behind him, who was telling her friends what she would like to do with Holmes if she had him alone.

And then suddenly he was at the front of the queue and stepping forward for his turn.

Flanked at the table on one side by a woman who seemed to be on the staff of the bookshop, judging by the way she kept communicating with one of the clerks, and on the other side by a pompous looking git in a three-piece suit, finally, there was Sherlock Holmes.

John was startled to realise that a pair of sharp grey-green eyes was fixed on him and for a moment he felt irrationally pleased that Holmes was noticing him. But then he realised what was going on. _Idiot_ , he thought, _Holmes is only waiting for you to put the book down._ To complete his embarrassment, he almost dropped the heavy volume onto the table in his hurry and the famous author smirked just a bit. “Sorry,” John said.

Holmes reached for the book and pulled it towards himself, but he was still looking at John. “Let us hope that you are less clumsy when you are in the operating theatre,” he said in a voice that made something in John tremble just a bit. No eighteen-year-old boy should have a voice like that.

Because he was paying attention to the voice and not the words, it took another moment before John realised what had been said. “What? How did you--?”

Holmes opened the front cover of the book. “Stroke of luck you had an early shift at Barts, so you could join the queue,” he said.

Slightly distracted by the sharp cheekbones on display, John didn’t answer immediately. _God, Holmes is going to think I really am an idiot._ “That’s amazing,” he finally said, figuring that statement could apply to the words, the voice, and/or the cheekbones.

By now Holmes had picked up a silver Cross pen and was holding it in his hand and when John noticed the long, slender fingers, he knew that he had gone fully around the bend. “What name would you like?”

“Mine.”

The git sitting next to Holmes sighed audibly.

John could feel his face heat. “John, please,” he said.

“I’m Sherlock.”

“Yes. I know.”

Holmes lowered his gaze finally as he prepared to sign the book. “I’m aware that you know it is my name,” he murmured. “I was merely mentioning that you could call me Sherlock.”

“Oh, okay. I love the book…Sherlock.”

Sherlock didn’t reply, putting all of his attention on what he was writing.

The git cleared his throat.

“Shut up, Mycroft,” Sherlock said. He finished writing with a flourish and closed the book. Then he looked at John again and smiled. It was a good look on him. “Thank you for coming, John.”

“Thanks,” John said, although he was not entirely sure what he was thanking him for, because he was rather drowning in those amazing eyes.

And then he just stood there, until the sales clerk finally took his arm and impatiently pulled him aside so that the next person in the queue could step to the table.

John moved into the aisle and then stopped again to get one more look at Sherlock Holmes, who had already signed the next book and reached for the one after that. Then he left the store.

It wasn’t until he was back out on the pavement and away from the crowd still waiting, that John paused and opened the book to see what Sherlock had written.

_To John,_  
If you would like to discover how I knew all about you,  
come to dinner tonight. Angelo’s, Northumberland Street  
at 7PM if convenient.  
If inconvenient, come anyway.  
-SH 

John reread the words three times before he really accepted that they were actually saying what he thought they were.

Then he read them again, just to enjoy the moment once more.

Very ordinary John Watson was going to have dinner with the amazing and brilliant Sherlock Holmes and for some reason John thought that maybe it was going to change his life.

He held the book tightly in both hands and jogged towards the Piccadilly Circus tube station, ordering himself not to even look at the words again until he was safely on the train.

**Author's Note:**

> Title From: The Common Reader by Virginia Woolf


End file.
